


I’m Into You

by highestkingbambi



Series: The Welters Challenge 2018 [5]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Anilingus, Drunk Blow Jobs, Excessive Drinking, Excessive Use of the Word Cock, F/M, Fellatio, Flirting, Foreplay, M/M, NSFW, Recreational Drug Use, Rimming, Smoking, This will turn NSFW in subsequent chapters, quentin still isn’t great at blow jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-28
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-17 12:09:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15461058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/highestkingbambi/pseuds/highestkingbambi
Summary: Set while the first years are still living in the dorms.Attending parties hosted by the other disciplines, Quentin and Eliot have their individual hookup plans derailed by dubious decisions.Aka, a gratuitous smut fic with a decent amount of exposition to explain how they get there. You know, the usual.





	1. No one throws a party like the Physical Kids

**Author's Note:**

> My entry under the Ships theme for the Welters Procrastination week.
> 
> Huge thanks to WildeBones for inspiring this piece and being my ace machete beta. You are a legend and I could not write this without you! Big ups to coldfiredragon and the free traders for listening to me whine and offering encouragement.

Going shot for shot with Penny was a bad idea. 

The man had a tolerance for cheap spirits that made Quentin weep. Literally. Locked in a bathroom after throwing up horrendous green liqueur all over his leather shoes, a handful of tears streamed down Quentin’s cheeks while he tried to fix himself up. 

Thank god for Alice and her weird obsession with dental hygiene. Though, considering how much sugar she consumed on a daily basis, carrying a spare toothbrush in her bag kind of made sense. In any case, he was grateful for the ability to brush his teeth, and her quick thinking spell to clean up the mess on his shoes. 

Of course, what she saw also made hooking up with her an impossibility. That was kind of the whole reason he had agreed to come with her and Penny in the first place. Which was also weird, because parties weren’t really his thing, but they were way more his thing than they were her thing and oh shit, he was hyperventilating again. 

“Please don’t puke. Please don’t puke,” he repeated to himself, standing over the basin. Hair drenched in sweat and face sallow, Quentin turned the faucet and let the water run. It was cold. It had to be. Cold water was the only thing that would help after the mix of Midori, puke and minty fresh toothpaste. 

He cupped his hands beneath the running water and splashed it on his face, lapping it up into his mouth. So much better. He was starting to feel normal. Well, not normal, but he was definitely getting his second wind. 

“Hey, we’re moving on to the next party, will you be okay?” Alice asked through the bathroom door. 

“Come on Coldwater, move your ass or get left behind.” Shit. Now Margo was calling him out. Why was she even talking to them? Margo hardly gave any of them more than a passing glance. Sometimes she threw out the occasional insult, but that was usually tempered by Eliot. Thinking of Eliot, Quentin wondered why they hadn’t seen him since the first party that night. 

“Just a sec,” he said, naively hoping they would give it to him. He tried to tie his hair back with an elastic, but his fingers couldn’t get all the wet strands off his face. 

“Do I look like someone who waits?” Margo’s voice boomed through the door. 

“Fine, I’m... I’m fine,” he said, opening the door to reveal his pasty, dripping face, and terribly messy ponytail to the women. 

“You are not fine,” Margo said, eyeing him up and down. She didn’t even pretend to hide her disdain. “But I don’t care,” she tapped her feet impatiently, each time more aggressive and urgent than the last. Quentin felt more judged by her stilettos than he did by the entire panel during his entrance interview. “El is chatting up some third year and I am so bored of these Illusionist dicks!” Margo raised her voice so that everyone in the vicinity could hear her insult. When Quentin still hadn’t moved, his feet frozen under the critical evaluation of her shoes, Margo grabbed him by the neck of his t-shirt and dragged him towards her. “Move it.”

At Margo’s instruction, they made their way from the bathroom to the front door of the Illusionists Castle, leaving the party behind. 

“Don’t fall on your way out,” someone called out.

“Choke on a cock,” Margo yelled back, before turning to Alice and Quentin. “Seriously, don’t fall, I’m not dealing with that shit tonight,” she added just for her companions, specifically addressing Quentin.

With the door opened, he remembered that the stairs were as invisible as the castle and he was way too drunk to feel safe going down them. He was definitely going to hurt himself. He tried to focus on the steps that Margo and Alice took and followed as closely as possible. 

“Yo, wait up,” Penny called out, catching up to them on the stairs. The sudden noise caused Quentin to stumble forward a few steps. “Get your shit together.” Penny grabbed him by the shoulder and held him up so he wouldn’t fall. 

“See, you are my friend,” Quentin giggled, before Penny’s frown made him reconsider his words. Penny quickly passed him to catch up to the women and Quentin refocused all his attention on not falling down the stairs. 

One foot after another, Quentin took his time. Every step tentative, until he finally reached the bottom and felt safe on his own two legs. The others were already more than a few yards ahead, but he could still see Alice’s white blonde hair and Margo’s hot pink dress. Unmissable beacons under the faint light of the moon, he followed them to the next party. 

Whoever thought it was a great idea to test drive every discipline’s party in one night was positively evil. Thank god the Physical kids were sitting it out that night. Four down, there was only one party to go. Quentin knew he should have gone to bed, but there was a rumour that the Healing students had IV drips and Vitamin B shots. That sounded like just what he needed.

Barely inside the Healing House and Margo disappeared. Clearly, she didn’t want to be around them. She just didn’t want to walk by herself. Figured. 

“Open your mouth,” a random healing student, still in their scrubs, ordered Quentin and for some reason, he did exactly as they asked. “This will help,” they added, and placed a small orange pill on his tongue. Before he knew what he was doing, he swallowed it dry. Quentin tried to ask them what it was, but they had already moved on. 

He thought he had his second wind. The addition of the pill made the effect of throwing up the alcohol seem like nothing. He’d never felt so much energy in his life. Quentin turned around to tell Penny and Alice about it, but they also disappeared. On his own in an unfamiliar location, potentially tripping on who knew what, Quentin tried to ground himself. He searched the party for something, anything, that made sense.

Somehow, instead of making sense, Quentin found himself dancing. No idea why he even started in the first place, his body was more in control than his mind. Lost under the mix of previously consumed alcohol and whatever was in that pill, Quentin was in a trance. His legs and arms moved without thought on a hastily thrown together dance floor. 

Sweaty hair covered his eyes where it had fallen out of his ponytail. Quentin couldn’t see anything more than what was right in front of him. A shame, he’d almost been excited to see what the place looked like. In his state, failed to notice as the party thinned out. Only the most dedicated—or fucked up partygoers remained. 

—-

The house where the Healing students lived was just as sterile as their work space. Tacked on to the infirmary, it might as well have been the same. Eliot hated it. He didn’t know why he even bothered to come. That was a lie. He knew exactly why he wanted to get hammered on someone else’s booze, and wait for an opportunity to present itself. 

Earlier that night, Eliot made a terrible error in judgement. 

Flirting with a third year, what had he been thinking? Sure the guy was cute, but fuck, he was miserable. Eliot should have known better. All four of the third year students were devoid of any levity. Even worse, the guy had a boyfriend. At least he was honest—Eliot tried to play Devil’s Advocate with himself before he settled on disappointment. The admission hadn’t been a positive, ‘He’s cool with me fooling around with other people,’ one, but rather a ‘Woe is me, he doesn’t understand, I’m secretly a piece of shit,’ kind of admission. 

He wasted half the night on someone he should have discarded the moment he realised they were a third year. 

Eliot needed fresh meat. Otherwise, he shuddered as the thought crossed his mind, he’d have to re-evaluate his stance on actively seeking pussy. Margo would be delighted at the added competition.

Cross-legged on an alarmingly uncomfortable couch, he knocked back healing students’ pathetic attempt at a signature shot. It tasted like menthol crossed with cough syrup. Disgusted, he downed another, and then another. 

“Here, have this,” a vaguely familiar healing student sat down beside him and offered a small orange pill. 

“Did we ever..?” He asked, wondering where he knew them from. 

“Oh, no. You’re not my type,” they responded quickly, knowing exactly what he meant. He was getting predictable; a tragedy worse than death. “But you do make the best cocktails at Brakebills, so have this. It’s a concentrated shot of various B Vitamins, with a tiny bit of MDMA. A little fun now, and no hangover in the morning.”

Bored of the party and intrigued by their claims, Eliot took the pill and placed it on his tongue. One last shot of the awful excuse the healing students had for a shot, and he swallowed it effortlessly. “Thanks,” he said turning to where they had been, but they had disappeared. “Stay weird, Brakebills.”

Leaning back into the rigid cushions, Eliot watched the room while he waited for the pill to kick in. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. The smoke lingered in his lungs as he released it above his head in small hoops. As the hoops spread, he altered the position of his tongue to push the last of the smoke through the rapidly dissipating hoops in one continuous line. 

All around him, students fawned over each other and talked absolute fucking nonsense. There was music, somewhere, but it was terrible and way too soft. No one on campus threw a party like the Physical Kids. The nights’ pathetic showcase was proof of just how important his role as the unofficial, unelected, social chair of Brakebills truly was. 

Finishing the cigarette, he contemplated lighting another, when a rush of endorphins raced through his body. That definitely wasn’t the nicotine. He stretched out his arms and unbent his fingers one by one. Eliot discovered a newfound respect for the healers. They may have thrown a terrible party, but they knew their chemistry. His tolerance was too high for the Ecstasy to make him want to get up and join the party, but it did give him a nice burst of unnecessary confidence—a minor consolation for the failed evening. 

He remained on the couch as the party gradually dissipated and wondered how Margo fared. Probably better than him. Across the room, he spied Quentin flailing about on a makeshift dance floor. Eliot tried to work out why he’d never explored him as an option. Quentin was attractive in the way that only someone who was oblivious to their appeal could be. Exactly his type. 

Of course. How could Eliot ever forget the reason he’d made a silent pact with himself not to pursue the disaster before him? Quentin was probably straight and definitely had a hard-on for a certain ample-chested, blonde genius whom Eliot had bumped into leaving the party while he was on his way in. Both challenges, not deal breakers. No, the real problem was that Eliot actually liked Quentin as a friend. An ill-advised attempt was worse than going home alone. He tried to put any non platonic thoughts of Quentin out of his mind. An almost impossible feat, thanks to those terrible dance moves and that tiny ponytail that made him look so deliciously hopeless. 

Distracting himself, he checked his watch. Two thirty. In the back of his mind he remembered reading somewhere that the majority of fatal accidents occurred between the hours of two and three in the morning. That probably wasn’t true, but it was his duty, as a friend, to make sure that Quentin got back to his room safely. 

Returning his watch to his vest pocket, Eliot smoothed down the top of his thighs and pressed his palms into his knees to leverage himself up. “Time to be the responsible one,” he sighed.


	2. Sometimes it pays to strike out.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Eliot tries to take Quentin back to the dorms, they commiserate over failing to hookup with their intended targets and work out that it might have been for the best.

“Hey, come on, let’s get you back to the dorms.” Eliot appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. He wrapped his arm around Quentin’s shoulders and led him outside. 

In the barely visible light of a waxing crescent moon, they found Penny and Margo. Pressed against the wall, her legs wrapped tight around his waist. Her skintight, hot pink dress, that earlier made her impossible to miss, now rode up her to her hips and revealed the bare skin of her thighs. Quentin couldn’t help but notice that there was no sign she wore any underwear. Arms held above her head, Penny appeared to suck the life out of her neck while she audibly moaned for their new audience. 

Eliot glanced down to see Quentin’s wide open mouth. “Yeah, I turn away for one moment, and this is what happens,” he laughed, filled with appreciation for his best friend’s theatrics. He’d turned away for a whole lot longer than just a moment, and he was happy that she found someone to entertain her in his absence. 

“She is going to eat him alive,” Quentin said, enthralled by their display. 

“Black widows’ always do.” Eliot looked at Quentin, keeping his face all stone and seriousness until the charade was too much to bear. Neither could work out who broke first, but they burst into tear streaked laughter. While they fell over themselves at a joke that barely warranted their reaction, the subjects of their discussion thought the better of their location and started to walk in the direction of both the dorms and the Physical Cottage. 

Quentin pointed towards Margo as he and Eliot trailed behind them. “She said you left her to hook up with some third year. Strike out?” He tried to catch Eliot’s eyes, but the night was too dark to see. 

“Like you did with Alice?” Eliot pushed back, squeezing Quentin’s shoulders. 

Unable to prevent the blush that formed on his cheek, Quentin stifled a giggle at the memory of Alice’s face when he threw up. “No. I mean, sort of.”

“She left ages ago,” Eliot mumbled. “Something about wanting to wake up tomorrow morning.” Eliot dropped the arm wrapped around Quentin while they walked. He grabbed his lighter from his pocket and fidgeted with the ignition. Talking about the blonde that Quentin never shut up about irritated him more than he liked to admit. Especially as he had been the one to bring her up. 

As they walked, they settled into a rhythm, Quentin taking two steps for every one of Eliot’s. Ahead of them, Margo and Penny walked marginally faster, their purpose abundantly clear by the way Margo’s hand familiarised itself with Penny’s ass. 

“So.” Quentin had no idea why he needed to to broach the subject again, but he couldn’t stop himself. “What happened with that third year?”

“Nothing,” Eliot said. Trying to remain nonchalant, he shoved the lighter back into his pocket. Eventually, he let out a reluctant sigh. “Had a boyfriend,” he added, not breaking stride and not wanting to go into detail. Within a few steps, he outpaced Quentin. “I prefer not to wreck homes where I can.”

“That’s big of you,” said Quentin, brushing his hand against Eliot’s as he skipped to catch up. 

“Thank you, I do have a reputation to uphold.” Realising that in his avoidance of a true answer he’d left Quentin struggling to keep pace, Eliot slowed down for him. 

“I thought your reputation was that you always got what you wanted,” Quentin said. More comfortable now that he didn’t have to race, he subconsciously deepened his voice. He wasn’t sure why, but hearing that Eliot had been unsuccessful too left him feeling like he had a chance at something he’d blocked out of his mind just moments after they first met. 

“Oh Q,” Eliot’s hand brushed against Quentin’s for a second, much more deliberate time. “If only that were the case.” For the briefest of moments, Eliot forgot himself and loosely held Quentin’s hand; his thumb ran gently along the back of it before letting go. 

Quentin was pretty certain he knew what Eliot was getting at, but he was drunk and maybe high or maybe that had been the rumoured Vitamin B that he was given, but even if it was, he danced for way longer than someone with his levels of social anxiety should ever be capable of dancing for—he could easily be completely wrong. In any case, he had to know. Everything that made his judgement impaired also made it the perfect situation to try something his sober self would never dream of. 

The fear of rejection and misread signals made him nauseous, but earlier he swallowed a pill dry—if he could do that, he could swallow fear easily. He furrowed his brow and told himself to stop being such a bitch, though that was a sexist term and he really should stop saying bitches all the time, even if he really liked how it sounded on his tongue. He grabbed Eliot’s hand and planted his feet. There was something better than speaking that he could to do with his tongue. 

“Okay, so,” he started, before giving up the pretence. He placed his free hand on Eliot’s cheek and rolled forward on the balls of his feet. Quentin kissed Eliot forcefully, as if excessive pressure was the only thing that could keep him from falling into a black hole of shame and infinite embarrassment. 

“What about Alice?” Eliot whispered against his lips. Taken aback by Quentin’s actions, he tried to sound flirty, but as soon as the words left his mouth he knew that regardless of his intentions they came across harsh.

Almost as quick as it started, Quentin pulled away. Feeling justified in his reticence, he shoved his hands in his pockets and turned to leave. Maybe he had read the signals wrong? 

Eliot clasped his palm around Quentin’s bicep to keep him from walking away. It was the last thing he wanted, after finally breaking his silent pact not to try anything. Quentin’s heart raced, his mind kept coming back to an idea that couldn’t possibly be true. Eliot couldn’t be worried about Alice. Quentin didn’t believe Eliot worried about anything. While he thought about things that weren’t possibly true, Eliot traced his thumb along the exposed skin, a tacit indication that Quentin hadn’t misread the signals.

“Alice who?” Confidence temporarily returned, Quentin pivoted to face Eliot. What was supposed to be a smooth, deliberate movement had him tripping over his feet. Trying to steady himself, he seized hold of Eliot’s hips and smacked his cheek against the buttons of his vest. 

“Oh, really?” Eliot snickered at the sight of Quentin grasping at his pants, holding on for dear life. Normally the whole ‘white girl wasted’ schtick turned him off faster than a Sunday school sermon, but Quentin’s mouth was dangerously close to his belt buckle and there had always been a part of him that wondered what the tightly wound first year felt like. He flicked his tongue along his bottom lip and craned his head down to look at Quentin. 

Large, warm hands moved to Quentin’s neck. As much as he wanted to push his head lower, Eliot wasn’t sure Quentin was in the right frame of mind for anything more than light fooling around. To his own surprise, he was actually happy enough with the idea. He threaded his fingers into Quentin’s hair and lead him to stand upright. Subtly moving his knee between Quentin’s shaky legs, he convinced himself it was to help him balance, nothing more. 

While they were preoccupied with each other, they missed Margo and Penny disappear from view. 

In spite of the substances that ran through his system, Eliot’s touch had Quentin easily getting hard. Hands still on Eliot’s hips to stabilise himself, he pressed his body closer. “I think you should take me back to your room,” Quentin looked up, eyes wide and desperately hoping he didn’t look desperate. 

“Oh, do you?” Eliot brushed Quentin’s hair behind his ear, and leaned forward to place a kiss beneath his jaw. The few days worth of growth scratched his cheek, the scent of salt and fading mint filled his nostrils. Curious, he traced his tongue along Quentin’s sweat soaked skin and felt his racing heartbeat. Quentin’s erection, pressed against his thigh, made his chest flutter. Unable to control himself, Eliot sucked down where the pulse in Quentin’s neck was strongest, determined to leave a mark. 

“Yeah,” Quentin said breathlessly, as he melted under Eliot’s lips. “You should.” To repay the favour, Quentin fingered the seam between Eliot’s trousers and his shirt. Finding the hem, he slipped his finger below it and untucked the shirt, exposing the pale skin of Eliot’s stomach to his touch. 

“And why is that?” Eliot tried to play coy, but the jump in his pitch exposed him. 

Claiming it as a victory, Quentin traced the back of his index finger behind Eliot’s fly and played with the hair beneath his navel. Turning his hand, he added more fingers to his teasing. Quentin’s knuckles ghosted along the soft skin where Eliot had clearly shaved, and maybe moisturised—Quentin needed to remember to do that next time. Though the thought of getting Eliot off in the fresh, outdoor air had him painfully aroused, he had to stop himself from reaching deeper. Now that he had brought up going back to Eliot’s room, he wouldn’t risk it for gravel in his knees. 

Catching the elastic of his boxers with his fingertips, Quentin gave Eliot a playful wink before he flicked at the band and released him from his grip. Leaving him standing in the darkness, Quentin walked on his own in the direction of the Physical Cottage. He held his breath and waited for the telltale sound of giant feet on asphalt to catch up to him. 

Quentin had been so close to touching his dick, Eliot didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He watched as Quentin got further away from him, but closer to the building where his bed was. Fuck, he thought. This wasn’t something he was mentally prepared for. Sighing, Eliot thought long and hard over the opportunity that awaited him. In the handful of months since the start of the school year, he’d considered, then ignored, the idea of getting Quentin into his bed. Clearly intoxicated, he was well past the state that Eliot preferred his conquests in, but Quentin was so damn adamant—and forward, that he had to see where it went.


	3. How drunk is too drunk?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getting into to bed is one thing. For Quentin, being able to please after everything he consumed at the parties is a whole other issue.

Time sped up and Quentin barely remembered the rest of the walk to Eliot’s room. All he thought about was the ways he wanted to explore Eliot’s body once they were in bed. So distracted, he wasn’t sure he’d taken more than a single breath the entire walk. Even as they walked through Eliot’s bedroom door, Quentin couldn’t believe he was brave enough to convince Eliot to bring him back to his room. 

At some point or another they both kicked off their shoes. The next thing they knew, Quentin was straddled over Eliot’s lap in the middle of poorly made double bed. Quentin didn’t know if they were the ones that messed up the duvet or if that was how Eliot’s room was. He liked the idea of Eliot being slightly messy, but it just didn’t seem realistic, he was always the picture of composure—even when he was drunk and falling apart. Wrapped up in his thoughts of bed linen, Quentin fumbled with the buttons of Eliot’s vest while his lips worked their way along his neck in haphazard movements. 

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Eliot asked. He wanted to give Quentin the chance to reconsider. Now that they were in bed, he could wait a few hours until they had both sobered up and could enjoy each other more. This was Quentin—not just a conquest, but his friend. The last thing he wanted to do was take advantage. He took Quentin’s hands and held them loosely in his own, rubbing soft circles on his palms, giving him every opportunity to slow down. 

“This is exactly what I want,” Quentin assured him, slipping his hands from Eliot’s grasp. Determined to prove he was up to the task, he pried opened the last of the buttons and peeled the vest over Eliot’s shoulders. Pulling him close, he slipped the garment over Eliot’s arms and left a sloppy kiss on the corner of Eliot’s mouth. Taking it from Quentin, Eliot tried to fold his vest, giving up under the urgency of Quentin’s advances. It fell to the floor in a heap that would have made Eliot cringe, if Quentin’s lips hadn’t found their way to his neck. “And if I’d known it was a possibility, I might have done it sooner,” Quentin whispered in his ear, sending a shiver down Eliot’s spine. 

Without warning, Quentin rocked back on Eliot’s hips and tucked his fingers beneath the hem of his own t-shirt , pulling it over his head. Caught on his neck, and his ears, the force caused the elastic holding his hair to snap, letting his hair fall awkwardly over his face while he threw it across the room. 

Eliot couldn’t help but smile at the sight of Quentin’s perseverance. Endeared—and concerned that he would struggle more, Eliot helped Quentin out by undoing the buttons of his shirt, removing it with a practiced ease. From the wicked, approving smile that twisted onto Quentin’s face, the action revealed a far more toned chest than he expected. Incoherent sounds fell from Quentin’s mouth and he placed his right hand on the small patch of dark, curly hair between Eliot’s pecs, proving to himself that everything was real. He rolled his hips and pressed his body into Eliot. 

Pulse racing, sending his blood south, Eliot felt his erection build as Quentin grinded against him. The sensation caused him to buck his hips, and Quentin’s hand slipped across his chest. His thumb brushed Eliot’s right nipple and he felt it go hard beneath his touch. 

An almost inaudible whine escaped Eliot’s lips. Senses heightened by the drug in his system, every new stroke of the sensitive skin had him gasping through ragged breaths. Without words he begged for more. They weren’t even naked yet, and already Eliot knew he wanted to fuck Quentin senseless. 

Encouraged by the almost desperate noises, Quentin couldn’t help but lean forward and wrap his lips around Eliot’s nipple. Starting with soft licks from the flat of his tongue, Quentin felt Eliot’s muscles tense and strain. Weak under Quentin’s touch, Eliot was helpless to do anything more than grasp at Quentin’s waist, his fingers tearing at the jeans, searching for the button. 

The pop of his jeans button flicking open reminded Quentin that he needed to have Eliot naked. He placed a wet kiss on his nipple, saliva trailing as he brought his head back up to see the hazy smile plastered on Eliot’s face.

Quentin gritted his teeth as he worked through what had to be the last button of the night. Only their zippers remained and zippers were so much easier to deal with. He gripped Eliot’s pants and boxers at his hips and tore them down his legs. Halfway down, his eyes focused on Eliot’s cock, and he couldn’t help but drop his jaw. So much bigger than any he had seen in person, Quentin wondered how Eliot walked in a straight line. Curious and so fucking horny, he reached out to touch, his thumb slowly dragging down the foreskin wrapped over the head. He wasn’t used to seeing an uncircumcised penis outside of porn, and the thought of putting it in his mouth had him simultaneously terrified and even more aroused than before. 

“Holy shit,” he whispered, hoping that his words would go unnoticed. 

The satisfied smirk that graced Eliot’s face let Quentin know that he was caught. Ego boost unnecessary, it was graciously accepted and Eliot tensed his body in a proud display. Daunted, Quentin tried to put the size out of his mind. He knew what he wanted to do, even if he probably wasn’t going to be able to handle it as well as he liked. Swallowing hard, he finished removing Eliot’s pants, before struggling with his own. 

“Let me,” Eliot said, captivated by Quentin’s attempts. With Eliot’s help—those huge, warm palms that knew how to undress a man with ease, Quentin successfully removed his jeans and threw them across the room. “Boxers too,” Eliot ordered casually. Toeing off his socks, he chuckled at the sight of Quentin wrestling with his own underwear. 

Finally free, Quentin crawled back up and kissed him. Their lips vibrated under the laughter and Quentin couldn’t break the smile that had been on his face so long it was now the default. Bodies flush, naked and mingling with sweat, Eliot struggled to believe he had discarded Quentin as an option for so long. They way they kissed was clumsy and a little sloppy, but there was no hesitation. No uncertainty in the way that Quentin touched him, like he knew what he was doing and had done it more than a few times before. The thought of an actually experienced Quentin had Eliot’s whole body tense with heightened anticipation. 

Quentin could have kissed Eliot for hours. He had a way with his tongue that made Quentin feel inexperienced—in a good way. It was the same kind of feeling he imagined having if he were able to go back and read his favourite Fillory stories for the first time. Only, now that he had seen Eliot’s cock, felt the way it pulsed against his thigh, Quentin knew he had to at least try going down on him. He dragged his bitten down nails along Eliot’s chest and settled himself between his long, muscular legs. Brushing his hair behind his ears, Quentin took a deep breath and dropped his head down to trail his tongue down on the soft skin of Eliot’s inner thigh, leaving messy kisses in his wake. His fingers massaged Eliot’s hips, they moved beneath his ass, kneading as he worked up the courage to take Eliot in his mouth. Quentin took his time, intimidated by cock towering over him. The thought of accidentally taking it deeper than he was capable of at his level of intoxication kept him from diving in like he so desperately wanted. 

Threading his hands through Quentin’s hair, Eliot nudged his head closer to his cock. Being so close, but not touching was driving him wild. He’d been okay with the idea of just making out, but now that fellatio was not only on the table, but the next course, he strained at Quentin’s delay. 

Where the hell was Quentin supposed to start? Sucking cock wasn’t new to him by any stretch of the imagination, but he didn’t remember being so daunted since the first time he tried. Eyes closed, he tried to empty his mind and wrapped his dominant hand around Eliot’s shaft. With his thumb up, away from the rest of his digits he reached as close to the head as possible and gently applied pressure before he slowly pumped. Each movement lead him closer to being ready. To stop himself from freaking out, he ran his tongue up the length of Eliot’s cock, just barely missing his own fingers. Reaching the end, he opened his mouth wide and wrapped his lips around the head, before Eliot’s hands pulled him back. 

Perhaps Quentin wasn’t as experienced as his foreplay suggested. Or maybe he really was too drunk for it. To give him a hand, Eliot peeled back his foreskin to reveal a more familiar sight and gave him an encouraging smile. It made so much more sense to Quentin, who secretly chastised himself for the hold up. He should have known—he’d masturbated to a similar sight more than enough times to at least have an idea of what to do. 

His own erection rubbed desperately against the duvet as he took Eliot back into his mouth. Flicking the tip of his tongue across the slit, he tasted precum and felt it mix uncomfortably with the myriad flavours he’d already taken in that night. Not ideal. There was nothing wrong with how Eliot tasted, it was Quentin’s tongue that was broken. Maybe he was a little too drunk to do this. To cover, he stoked harder with his hand, keeping the cock shallow in his mouth. In his state there was no way he could let Eliot go any deeper without it ending up terrible for them both, and Quentin hoped that the awkward sucking and fevered pumping would be enough to get Eliot off. 

Not wanting to be shit, but painfully aware that he was, he slipped the cock from his mouth and tried to focus on Eliot’s balls while his hand did all the work. Eliot’s warm hand wrapped around his own and helped him jerk himself off while Quentin tried to suck on his balls. The rapid change of positions and actions left him unable to keep a steady pace and he stopped abruptly to catch his breath. 

“Hey, Q,” Eliot interrupted, ready to put an end to Quentin’s attempts. The pressure was fine, and the warmth of his mouth worked well enough, but it didn’t feel right. Not when Quentin was struggling, unable to keep his mouth open for a more than a few seconds at a time. “Come up here,” he ordered, this time leaning down to look at him. Refusing to take Quentin’s word for it that he was good to continue, Eliot grabbed him by the armpits and dragged him up the bed. “You get an A for enthusiasm,” he said, kissing Quentin on the forehead. “But you’re way too drunk for this,” he added as he rubbed soothing circles on his back. 

Quentin pouted, but it was all truth. He was not physically capable of anything even close to a decent blow job and everything he was doing was likely to render a repeat out of the question. “I can keep up the hand job,” he offered weakly. 

“I’ll survive,” Eliot smiled and patted the sheets beside him. It would be mildly painful to sleep with the erection he sported, but he wasn’t confident Quentin had the stamina to complete.

“I’m normally better than this,” Quentin said, his face red with embarrassment and exertion. Failure accepted, he rolled his head onto Eliot’s chest. As Eliot stroked his sweaty hair back from his eyes, he figured that maybe it wasn’t all bad. After all, Eliot hadn’t kicked him out. “It’s just-”

His words were cut short by the screams of pleasure that reverberated through the walls. Down the hall, someone else was far more successful than they were. Eliot shook with stifled laughter, and Quentin looked up to catch a glimpse of pure pride on his handsome face. 

It was hard to understand what was happening, but it was clearly Margo. Her deep, ragged moans couldn’t be attributed to anyone else. Evidently she allowed Penny back to her room, and he was doing a much better job of pleasing her than Quentin had done with Eliot. 

“Is she?” Quentin started to enquire, unable to stop listening to the sounds of enthusiastic encouragement and the light slapping of sweaty skin. 

“Always that loud?” Eliot guessed what Quentin tried to ask before his attention wandered. “Not exactly, but if she finds someone up to her level, she does enjoy letting them...and everyone else know.” He glanced down at Quentin and noticed his smile had faded. “Hey,” he placed a reassuring peck on his cheek and wrapped his arm around Quentin to pull him in tightly. “Get some rest,” he said. “It’s Sunday, and you are the only thing I plan on doing when we wake up.”

Comforted by Eliot’s words, Quentin tried to put the thoughts of his failure behind him. It wasn’t his fault, it was the alcohol, and he would be better at it in the morning. Nestled into the space beneath Eliot’s arm, he closed his eyes and waited for the combination of entertaining sounds, too much booze, and the soothing motion of Eliot’s chest as it rose and fell to let him drift off to sleep.


	4. A little sleep, a glass of water and a whole load of desire.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s a few hours after the failed blow job. They’re sobering up and ready for round two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in my originally intended schedule. Chapter four needed a little more work. 
> 
> Huge thanks to WildeBones for kicking my ass and getting me to think about what I’m writing before posting.

Dawn broke through Eliot’s curtains, waking Quentin from a deep sleep. Hidden beneath the duvet, he found himself palming his own erection while his other hand rested comfortably between Eliot’s thighs. A tactile sleeper, especially when drunk, sleep had only encouraged his libido. Even in his dreams, he hadn't been able to get Eliot’s cock out of his mind. 

“Are your dreams always so vivid?” Eliot asked, forcing a glass of water on him. He’d been awake on and off for the last hour, listening as Quentin mumbled the most delicious desires in his sleep. “And so loud?” He added with an almost predatory grin. If conscious Quentin was as adventurous as dreaming Quentin, the extended intermission was more than worth the pain of an unsucked cock.

Removing his hand from his dick, Quentin gratefully took the glass and finished it in one long drink. He tried to work out exactly what he’d been dreaming of, and if he really had talked in his sleep. The position of his hands and the fresh coating of sweat on his body were a dead give away, but he wasn’t ready to admit it aloud. He was convinced he not only dreamed of finishing the blow job; he’d definitely also dreamed about Eliot fucking him—hard. 

“Ready to try again?” Eliot asked him, his voice dripping with playful seduction. He took the glass from Quentin’s hand and placed it on his nightstand.

“Try what?” Quentin pretended he didn’t know exactly what Eliot was suggesting. The sleep had sort of sobered him up, enough that he was far more aware of himself than he had been before. His face burned red with light humiliation, and he buried it into Eliot’s chest. Unable to help himself, he breathed in the scent of sleep and sweat. Damn, Eliot smelled inviting. He wasn’t kidding anyone, they both knew how much he wanted it. 

“Am I supposed to take that as a no?” Eliot teased sections of Quentin’s hair around his finger into ringlets while the other man played coy. 

Quentin answered by placing a soft kiss into Eliot’s chest. The hand between his thighs twisted to spread Eliot’s legs further apart. His thumb rose to stroke the base of his cock, releasing a hoarse moan from deep in Eliot’s throat. So loud, it wouldn’t have surprised him if they woke the whole cottage. Pleased with himself, Quentin looked up through hooded eyelids up Eliot’s face, taking in the sight of him biting his tongue between his lips in an attempt to stay in quiet. 

“You can take it any way you want it,” Quentin teased, trailing his lips down Eliot’s torso. His tongue traced the faint lines of his abdominal muscles, while his other hand made its way up Eliot’s side, scratching gently before settling in the middle of his chest. Quentin pushed the duvet to the bottom of the bed with his feet; he didn’t want anything getting in the way of his intentions. Dropping his head with the intent to start at his balls, Quentin’s cheek brushed against Eliot’s semi erect cock. The light stubble of his jawline scratched the sensitive skin, causing Eliot to stifle a yelp. Quentin twisted his head so his lips ghosted along the edge of Eliot’s cock, determined to soothe the irritation. “You can take me anyway you want,” he whispered, knowing it was cheesy, he just couldn’t help himself. The warmth of Quentin’s open mouth, his soft lips, gliding over the minor graze had Eliot grasping at the sheets. Quentin was more of a tease than he expected. 

Gradually, Quentin worked his way up the side of Eliot’s cock. His right thumb pressed with light force into the base, as he rolled Eliot’s balls in his palm. When his mouth reached the head, he remembered the way that Eliot peeled back the foreskin, and released his balls to try his hand at it. Quentin brought himself up on his knees, finding a better angle to grip Eliot’s considerable length. He confined the tip between his thumb and index finger, dragging them down together to reveal his swollen head. One last glance up at Eliot’s approving eyes and Quentin skimmed the flat of his tongue across the top of his cock. Flicking the tip of his tongue, he caught Eliot’s foreskin, and slowly swirled beneath it. Thanks to a few hours sleep and the glass of water Eliot forced on him, Quentin was finally in the right frame to pick up where they left off. Taking his time, he savoured the way Eliot tasted—bitter, yet also mildly sour. It was as if Eliot derived the majority of his fruit in mixer form. Quentin always was drawn to complex flavours. 

Eliot clenched his thighs and tried not to arch too suddenly into Quentin’s mouth as he wrapped his lips around his cock. Careful to keep his teeth out of the way, Quentin hollowed his cheeks and took him deeper. Sucking in time with the movement of his hands, Quentin’s technique could use a little work, but Eliot found himself strangely not caring—they could always practice in the future. Forgetting that recurring hookups weren’t his style, Eliot became lost in the momentum. He marveled at the way the muscles on Quentin’s smooth, unmarked back flexed and released as his head bobbed up and down. 

Curling his tongue around Eliot’s shaft, Quentin considered how deep he could take him. Not as deep as he would like. He lamented his gag reflex, and the excessive amount of alcohol that still worked its way out of his blood stream. Increasing the pressure of his suction, he once again dragged the flat of his tongue along the head of Eliot’s cock before he pulled his mouth off. The loss of Quentin’s mouth caused Eliot to release a small whimper. To make up for it, Quentin stroked with his hand, while he dropped his head even lower between Eliot’s thighs. He placed a forceful kiss on Eliot’s perineum and followed by dragging his tongue up and over Eliot’s balls. 

Thoughts wandered as he traced his tongue along the thick vein on the underside of Eliot’s cock. Looking up at Eliot’s face, Quentin saw his eyes shut tight; his mouth hung open in a lazy smile. Torn between wanting to continue, to cause the smile to transform into cries of pleasure, and the thought of Eliot inside him, Quentin had to make a decision. Dreams becoming clearer in his memory, Quentin needed to know just how close to reality his imagination was. 

“I think,” he mumbled as he covered Eliot’s cock with fevered kisses. He quickly reconsidered his approach. Meekness wasn’t the right way to express his desire. It wasn’t sexy, and this was Eliot. He needed to bring his best. “I need you to fuck me,” he said, voice breathy and desperate.

For the second time that morning, Eliot heard Quentin beg for penetration. The first time, Quentin had been talking in his sleep, subconsciously rubbing his hand up and down Eliot’s thigh. Hearing it again was almost too much. He leaned forward and placed hand his under Quentin’s chin. Lifting it gently, he ran his index finger along his jaw and gazed into Quentin’s dark brown eyes. For a moment he was lost, buried deep in his desire. He’d never allowed himself to seriously consider the idea of Quentin in his bed, let alone the sight of him begging for it. Eliot swiped his thumb across Quentin’s glistening, saliva soaked lips, and nodded his enthusiastic agreement. 

Determined not to be too eager, Quentin fought the urge to climb up and kiss him. Instead, he lowered his mouth back to the tip of Eliot’s cock and placed a gentle kiss on the head. 

“Don’t stop,” Eliot whined before Quentin heard a marked change in his tone. “Get on top of me,” he ordered, and Quentin wondered how that was supposed to happen if Eliot didn’t want him to stop with his mouth. Sitting up, Eliot realised that he needed to move Quentin himself. He tapped him on the shoulder and pointed to Quentin’s legs. “They need to be up here,” he explained, pointing to his upper body. “Trust me,” he added, seeing a minor look of confusion. 

With Eliot’s hands guiding, Quentin altered his position. Straddled over Eliot, ass in his face while he stared at his cock from a new angle, Quentin found his body shaking with anticipation. He ran his index finger up the vein on the underside of Eliot’s cock and watched as it arched up towards his mouth. He wrapped his lips around Eliot’s cock, this time using his tongue to play with the foreskin, swirling beneath it. Finally, he elicited a small trail of precum and moaned as the bitter taste hit his tongue. 

It occurred to Eliot that he’d been so focused on what Quentin could or couldn’t do for him, that he'd barely taken the time to appreciate his nudity. With Quentin’s ass in his face, his cock hard and standing at attention, he finally had the chance to take him in. Hair neatly trimmed, it was as if Quentin went out expecting some action. Thoughts of a mildly confident Quentin preparing himself crossed Eliot’s mind and left him beaming. If he wasn’t careful he could end up wanting more. He tried to wrap his fingers around Quentin’s cock when he felt him moan. Eliot struggled to keep his head up, falling back into the pillows as Quentin’s tongue traced determined circles over his dick. 

“Fu-uck,” he cried. Eliot grasped at Quentin’s thighs. His hands slipped, already coated in sweat and they had barely started. Wiping his palms on the blankets, he tried again. 

Quentin slowed his movements to give Eliot a chance to hold on. He hoped he wouldn’t need to say anything, but he needed a lot of work to reach the point where he could take him. 

The change in pace allowed Eliot to take hold of Quentin’s thighs. Starting at his balls, Eliot ran his fingers over the soft skin and spiky short hairs. He massaged Quentin’s perineum, while his used his other hand to gently part his asscheeks. Timing his movements with the agonisingly slow pace that Quentin set, Eliot stroked his tongue, gliding over where Quentin had neglected to trim. At least it gave him a chance to lubricate his tongue a little more. 

Feeling Eliot’s tongue as it tickled his skin, Quentin swallowed harder than he intended. Thankfully Eliot had a strong grip. Holding tight to Quentin’s thigh, he stroked his tongue again, this time reaching his asshole. A flick of the tip against his opening and Quentin stopped moving. The light pulsing of his tongue around Eliot’s shaft and the warmth of his mouth the only indication he was still there. 

“You okay?” Eliot asked. 

Quentin mumbled his agreement. The sound vibrated over the head of Eliot’s cock, and he fought the urge to come. He wasn’t ready and Quentin definitely wasn’t ready. Eliot sunk his hips into the bed and guided Quentin to release him. Their previous position wasn’t right for the moment, and Eliot needed to focus on Quentin. “How flexible are you?” He asked, rolling them over. 

With Quentin on the bed, Eliot got up on his knees and turned so that he could come face to face with Quentin. His fingers crept between Quentin’s thighs to trail along the soft skin, threading into the long dark hairs that ended abruptly at his junk. Quentin was all over the place with his grooming. It was adorable, and Eliot had to remind himself not to lose focus. 

“I’m,” Quentin tried to answer, but he was distracted by Eliot’s touch. “What was the question?” As he attempted to speak, Eliot caressed the pad of his index finger along his asshole. The sensation caused his voice to go high. Much higher than he intended.

“Are you flexible?” Eliot asked again with a satisfied grin, watching Quentin’s chest as it heaved up and down. Manoeuvring Quentin so that his knees were up in the air, Eliot lowered his head and ducked beneath them. With Quentin’s thighs on his shoulders, he used his fingers to spread his cheeks, and brought his tongue back to Quentin’s asshole. 

“Not ve-” Quentin tried to respond, but the feeling of the warm muscle twirling around his entrance made it impossible to complete his thought. He arched his back, grasped his hands to the duvet. Eliot took the opportunity to lift him, getting a better position for himself to loosen Quentin up. “Oh fuck, I-,” he tried to speak, but Eliot had pressed inside. Only just enough saliva, Quentin squirmed at the feeling.

Removing his tongue, Eliot worked up more saliva in his mouth and tried again. He dragged the flat of his tongue over Quentin’s entrance, coating it generously, before he brought the tip back down. He pressed inside, slowly at first, taking his cues from Quentin’s moans and the feeling of his muscles that tensed and released in his hands. Eliot flicked his tongue in calculated movements. As he worked out Quentin’s preferences, the thighs on his shoulders shuddered and strained to keep their position. He dropped his hands to Quentin’s knees. Using them for leverage, he folded Quentin’s legs into his chest, all the while keeping the movement of his tongue inside his asshole consistent. 

Desperate to reach for his dick, Quentin had to use his arms to steady himself instead. Eliot had him weak, falling apart, crumpled under the pleasure of his tongue. Experienced and in control in all the ways that Quentin felt he wasn’t, he was helpless to do anything but beg for more. His back ached. Eliot had him curled into a position he’d never tried to hold before, but he didn’t want it to stop. Unable to tell if he was ready, Quentin cried out, begging for the teasing to end. 

“I, just-goddammit, Eliot,” Quentin moaned, each syllable harder to release than the last. “Fuck me,” he said, so loud that it stopped Eliot midway through twirling his tongue. Eliot removed his tongue, and lowered Quentin back to the bed. “Just, please,” Quentin whimpered at the loss of pressure. “Fuck me.”


	5. They weren’t expecting that.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An initial hiccup and Quentin finally gets what he’s been asking for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters at once! 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me! I hope you enjoy this little fic.

Eliot frantically searched his nightstand for condoms and lubricant. Being diligent with his sexual health, he always knew were they were. They were always in the same place, except, Eliot’s faced turned into a grimace as he worked out what happened. 

“Margo!” He yelled, loud enough to wake the entire Physical Cottage, and potentially the rest of the school. 

The power of his voice was a shock to Quentin; why Eliot was calling out to his friend, and so angrily was a mystery. Quentin threw the duvet over his naked body, expecting a barrage of people to come in and tell them to be quiet. Instead, when the door flung open, a single figure stood and leaned against the frame. Wearing only a crumpled, oversized white shirt, sporting a mess of bed hair, Margo beamed. 

“Sorry, babe,” she said, no hint of remorse in her tone or expression. From behind her back she produced a squeeze bottle and a handful of loose condoms. “Didn’t think you’d need them,” she added. 

Eliot reached out, and Margo threw the items at him. With a wave of his hand, they slowed down mid flight and he caught them easily with his left hand. “These aren’t mine,” he said, looking over the condoms. None of the foil packets were the brand he used, and none were even close to the right size. 

“My bad, must’ve used them all,” she said with a hint of mischief. Margo slipped her hand into the breast pocket of her shirt. The smile on her face reached the corner of her eyes as she pulled out a single condom. Exactly his type. “Oh, what’s this?” she feigned innocence. 

“Bambi,” Eliot warned her to finish up with her games. 

Margo chucked the condom onto the bed, landing beside Eliot’s huge feet. “Stay safe, boys,” she winked. With an almost trained pirouette, she turned from the doorway, and began to leave. 

“Is that my shirt?” Eliot called out. 

“Love ya, El.” Margo ignored his question and blew him a kiss over her shoulder before she disappeared into the hallway. 

Wanting to be mad, Eliot he couldn’t help but smile instead. Whatever her reasons, it was well played and he would delight in getting her back when she least expected it. His only fear was that it had scarred Quentin, still hidden beneath the covers. Setting aside the lube and his one condom, Eliot lifted the duvet. Quentin looked sheepish, his cheeks red and sweating, like he’d done something wrong.

“I hope that Margo’s little performance didn’t scare you off,” Eliot said, brushing the hair where it had fallen back over Quentin’s eyes. 

The blush on Quentin’s cheeks spread lower, down his neck and into his chest. Eliot looked down to see Quentin was just as hard as he’d had been before they stopped to look for the lube. “Is it weird if I say no?” He admitted, bashful over his increased arousal. 

“Definitely not,” Eliot pounced on Quentin, making him captive between his thighs. 

“So, uh, are we going to do this or what?” Quentin placed his hands on Eliot’s waist. Catching Eliot’s eyes, he arched his left brow and tried to look seductive. The mood had changed. Quentin was basically sober which meant that Eliot definitely was too. No longer hot and heavy, if they were to sleep together, they would do so completely aware. 

In answer to his question, Eliot leaned forward and brought their lips together in a slow, impassioned kiss. He slipped his tongue through Quentin’s lips, tasting his morning breath, and finding he still wanted more. Quentin’s hands ran down Eliot’s sides, ending at his ass. He clutched lightly, spurring Eliot to mumble his appreciation against his mouth. Their tongues rolled over each other desperate to taste; breathing was overrated. 

Eliot reached for the lube, and squeezed a small amount onto the fingers of his left hand. Keeping their lips together, he nudged Quentin to bring his legs up. Knees pressed against Eliot’s shoulders, Quentin braced himself in expectation. 

Deep in his abdomen, Eliot felt a warmth growing with anticipation for how he would bring Quentin undone. Parting from his lips, Eliot took a deep breath and ran his lubricated fingers over Quentin’s asshole. Quentin shuddered at the touch, but smiled widely, encouraging him to continue despite his initial discomfort. To distract him, Eliot kissed his thighs, sucking gently as he pressed his index finger inside Quentin. 

A low, gravelly moan left Quentin’s lips, and Eliot felt his own erection pulse. He curled his finger inside of Quentin, slowly moving in and out while he continued to place kisses on his thighs. 

“Ahh, more.” Quentin breathed his desires. He wasn’t quite ready, but he didn’t care. He was impatient; they’d already been delayed so many times, he couldn’t bear to wait much longer. 

Following Quentin’s request, Eliot added his middle finger and gently circled it inside him. The situation called for more lube, and Eliot squeezed a generous amount over the fingers working their way inside Quentin. Crying out from the combination of heat from his tender muscles and cold from the fresh lube, Quentin moved his right hand to Eliot’s cheek. He stroked his thumb along Eliot’s sharp cheekbones, each time a silent indication for them to continue. 

Spreading his legs to make himself more comfortable, Quentin tried to focus on the feeling of Eliot’s lips on his thighs. Soft and tender, helping to distract him from the sting of his stretching hole. Eliot scissored his fingers, determined to loosen Quentin enough to take him. With Quentin’s legs starfished around him, Eliot bent over and kissed him on the lips. 

“Can you take one more?” He asked Quentin. Eliot rubbed his thumb hard against Quentin’s perineum while he curled the fingers inside to massage his prostate. Quentin let out a quiet moan and tapped his fingers on Eliot’s cheek. 

“I can,” he started, needing the comfort of Eliot’s mouth as the pain turned to pleasure. “I can try.”

As he tentatively pressed a third finger inside, Eliot hoped that Quentin wasn’t pushing himself harder than he could go. He continued to kiss him, exploring his mouth while Quentin’s moans vibrated through them both. Quentin’s erection hit him in the stomach as he dropped lower, his right arm struggling to support his weight. 

Lightly crushed beneath Eliot’s body, Quentin expected to feel claustrophobic. Instead he felt exhilarated. He never considered himself to be the type that enjoyed being held captive, but somehow it felt natural. Slowly, he felt himself loosen up under Eliot’s patient movements. He was as ready as he needed to be. Quentin reached between their bodies, brushing his hand against his own hard cock before he located Eliot’s. Wrapping his hand around, felt it twitch in his hand. Their lips broke apart and sigh escaped Eliot. 

Raising his brow, Eliot silently asked Quentin if was ready. With a definitive nod, Quentin urged him on. Eliot removed his fingers and pulled back to break open the condom packet. Biting his lip, Quentin watched with bated breath, as Eliot slid the condom over his considerable length. After a long squeeze of the lube, Eliot languidly stroked his cock, coating himself with the cold lube while he gazed into Quentin’s wanting face. Fingers slick, he rubbed his rapidly warming digits against Quentin’s asshole, relishing the way he squirmed at every touch. 

Breathing deeply, Quentin kept his eyes on Eliot as he stroked his cock. Eliot grabbed Quentin’s thighs, leveraging himself as he eased himself inside. Eyes forced shut by the movement, Quentin’s jaw hung open. Ragged breaths left from deep in his throat. He tried to stay relaxed, focusing on Eliot’s hands as they gripped his thighs. Brow scrunched and lips tight, his face was a look of pure concentration. Taking it slow, he gradually pressed further into Quentin, taking care to check on him at every point. 

“You can,” Quentin started, before Eliot’s slow thrusting cut him off. “You can, ahh,” he couldn’t complete his thought. He tried to reach for Eliot’s chest, but there was too much distance. Quentin wanted him closer. He wanted to feel Eliot’s chest beating in time with the movement of his hips. 

Eliot gradually increased his speed. The feeling of being inside Quentin, so tight and warm, had him desperate to thrust harder. He pushed Quentin’s legs against his sides and rolled his hips. Sweat pooled in the tiny patch of hair on Quentin’s chest, shining in the faint sunlight that peaked through his curtains. Eliot couldn't remember the last time he had fucked someone face to face, preferring to watch their backs as the muscles became taught. With Quentin, he was glad they eschewed ease for intimacy. The look on Quentin’s face as he moaned each time Eliot drove his cock into him made him weak. Incapable of stopping himself, Eliot brought his head down to kiss him again. 

With Eliot closer, Quentin threaded his fingers into his hair. He ran his tongue between their lips and savoured the way he tasted like tobacco and menthol through the light hint of morning breath. He’d been trying to place it for hours, but it wasn't until the white hot heat of being penetrated by Eliot cleared his mind, that he was able to work it out. Quentin squeezed Eliot’s neck, spurring him on to thrust faster, his prostate begging for the attention. 

Between their heaving bodies, Quentin’s cock throbbed, slick with the sweat that ran off Eliot’s skin. He was close to orgasm, faster than he liked, but Quentin couldn’t help himself. With the hand not clasped around Eliot’s neck, he jerked himself off in uneven bursts. His knuckles brushed along Eliot’s taught abs. There was nothing Eliot could do to stop himself from climax. He wanted to stave it off and draw it out, but they had been going on and off for so long that his self control was almost non existent. He came in a rush, his mind empty for a few seconds while his body pulsed with endorphins. Their lips still connected, his tongue went slack in Quentin’s mouth, while he lazily pulled out. At the same time, Quentin came on his chest, and Eliot couldn’t help but smile as he rolled off him. On his back, panting heavily, his head lolled to face Quentin. 

Locking eyes, they struggled to do anything more than catch their breath. Eventually Quentin put his hand in the air, before he let it drop onto Eliot’s chest. He ran his knuckles against the sweaty skin and let out a giggle. 

“Really?” Eliot tried to look offended but Quentin’s laughter was infectious. He rolled to his side and placed a kiss on Quentin’s forehead. 

“So, uh, that was awesome,” Quentin managed to say between giggles, his fingers playing with the hair on Eliot’s chest. 

“Remind me why we didn’t do this earlier?” Eliot asked as he brushed Quentin’s hair from his face. 

“Because you’re both morons,” Margo said, interrupting their moment. She resumed her place against the door frame. Instead of hiding what they needed behind her back, she held three champagne flutes in one hand, a bottle of prosecco in the other and what Quentin could only presume was a carton of orange juice under her arm. 

“Wha-what are you doing here?” Quentin asked as frantically covered himself with the cum and sweat soaked duvet. 

“Peace offering,” she replied, grinning widely as she shook the glasses. Still wearing his white shirt, Eliot gave her a puzzled look, but waved her over. 

From the top drawer of his nightstand, Eliot produced a pack of wipes and cleaned himself off. Quentin took a handful and wiped himself down beneath the duvet. With their hands free, they each took a glass from Margo’s hands and waited for her to fill them up. Once she filled their glasses, Margo crawled onto the bed and slipped between them. 

“Why are you wearing my shirt?” Eliot asked. He figured he knew the answer, but she was capable of surprising him. “Didn’t you and Penny?“

“Yeah I did,” she threw him a wink. Quentin tried not to think about overhearing them in the early hours. “Like I'd wear that hippy shit.”

“You could have worn your own clothes,” Quentin offered up. Sipping on his mimosa he felt more comfortable than he should have, sweaty and naked under the blanket. 

In unison, Eliot and Margo burst into laughter. They clinked their glasses together and downed them in a single gulp. Eliot wrapped his right arm around them both and gently squeezed Quentin’s neck. “Bambi likes to parade her conquests, often with their head on a stick.”

“Is this how it always goes for you two?” Quentin couldn’t help but ask. He thought he was close to his best friend, but this was a whole new level of intimacy for him. 

“Only when I want to make sure El doesn’t fuck up a good thing.” 

Quentin looked past Margo to see Eliot shrug, the hint of a smile on his face. Barely able to move, he hadn’t considered if hooking up with Eliot would be more than a one time thing. He’d left his dorm room the night before with the intent on ending up with a very different person. Still, he was more than pleased with the change in direction, and if a repeat was on the table, he was definitely interested. Once he had a chance to recover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments and kudos always appreciated, but I’d love to hear your thoughts on this piece. Good, bad, indifferent?

**Author's Note:**

> PSA: Don’t take drugs from people you don’t know. It probably won’t work out as well as this does. 
> 
> Also, don’t go shot for shot with someone significantly larger, or with a much higher tolerance for you. It’s just messy, and most of us mere mortals don’t have the ability to wave our hands and clean it up.
> 
> PS. This drug (as far as I’m aware) does not exist. So don’t take MDMA thinking it will help avoid a hangover. It doesn’t. But, Vitamin B does help minimise the effects of a hangovers.


End file.
